The Little Things
by Kaytrina
Summary: Mugen knows that it really is the little things that make life worth living.
1. Chapter 1

Mugen liked to irritate Fuu.

A snide comment, a yank on a lock of her hair, catching the back of her sandal under his geta to make her trip, burping and blowing it in her face. All the little, childish, mindless aggravations that, building up over months of hard travel, can literally drive a person insane.

He liked it because it was fun. Every time he thought he had witnessed every fit of rage, felt every type of blow from her tiny fists, heard every screaming insult she could possibly throw at him in retaliation, she would surprise him. Mugen had now seen her punch a tree (much to her own regret), had been hit in the face with a shoe, a piece of squid, and a broom, and had been called a brainless motherless monkey-fucker.

Mugen didn't know she knew words like that. He was sort of proud.

It gave him a strange thrill when she raged at him. He had thought about thinking about why being called horrible names by Fuu made him happy, but decided that thinking about it was stupid. He liked it, so he did it. Driving Fuu crazy was the highlight of his days.

There was only one thing he liked more, though he would never in ten million years admit it to anyone, and he tried very hard not to admit it to himself. But every so often, usually when he didn't even mean to, he would say something wry or witty or just exactly what needed to be said, and Fuu would throw her head back and laugh. This made Mugen warm in all those stupid, useless, mushy ways that were dangerous and that he hated. But him hating it didn't change anything.

Mugen loved making Fuu laugh.


	2. Remix

Mugen was in a very good mood. His geta clacked against the hard-packed dirt of the street, the wind ruffled through his thick, wild hair, and the thug he ran after was properly terrified of the crazy-eyed, grinning man who was after him with a sword. As he should be.

The ugly little man rounded a corner and darted into a side street, trying desperately to throw Mugen off his trail, but Mugen was much too quick to be given the slip. Stupid little man.

As they ran, Mugen caught a glimpse of a familiar shade of pink out of the corner of his left eye. He almost disregarded it, but then the realization hit him that beside this familiar shade of pink was a man, and an empty-looking house, and the shade of pink was being ushered inside of this empty-looking house by this man. He put on the brakes.

Fuu glared at him, and he glared back.

"You hangin' around with a skirt chaser?"

She clenched her fists, lifted her chin. "No, you idiot. For your information, he wants me to model for him."

Despite popular belief, Mugen's thought process is quite quick. At this very moment, he was considering this "artist" guy, Fuu's uncanny ability to make friends with the one person in an entire city who could put them all in the worst situation possible, the likelihood of this guy being one of them, and whether or not he really cared one way or the other. He made a few decisions.

One - this guy looked like someone who would do things that Mugen really wouldn't like. Like putting his hands in places they didn't belong. Two - why he was upset at the thought of hands in places where they shouldn't be was a mystery. Three - there was no way he could object to this without unwanted questions. Four - the guy was kinda girly-lookin. Mugen could definitely take him. Five - Mugen would deal with it later.

He glared at her for just a half-second more, considered telling her to keep her legs closed and a tight grip on her little tanto knife, but kept his mouth shut, and turned back to his prey, who had gotten a considerable lead on him.

Yeah, that guy better run. Mugen wasn't in a very good mood anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

He never would have let them hurt her.

Not that he'd ever tell her that.

She liked to throw it in his face sometimes, how he'd waited until she promised him an outrageous number of dumplings to stop some punk-ass from chopping her fingers off, and how it proved that he was a no good, selfish, opportunistic asshole. He didn't know what opportunistic meant, but he figured it wasn't anything good.

She conveniently ignored that he did save her in the end, and how he'd now pulled her ass out of the fire so many times that they both were losing count. He didn't call her out on it, though. Neither of them wanted to pay too close attention to that little detail, and risk the inconvenient inevitability of wondering _why_.

Truth was, he'd known from the moment he'd pulled that curtain back that those thugs weren't going to do shit. He'd spotted her out of the corner of his eye - she was such a little thing, but she didn't cower. Wasn't really his type, but he liked her fire. He'd only waited to see what she would do, and she hadn't disappointed him. And if she knew how impressed he'd been when she'd rescued him in return – with bombs stuffed down her shirt, no less – he'd never hear the end of it.

There was no point in telling her the truth – that he'd fucking destroy anyone who laid a finger on her. He figured she probably knew.


End file.
